Count Toussaint’s Pregnant Mistress (13 page)

Gritting his teeth, he shook his head, as if he could physically rid himself of the cascade of sensations, and stepped inside the room.

‘What in God’s name are you doing?’

Abby froze. Slowly she turned to face the doorway where Luc stood, his chest heaving, his eyes blazing blue fire.

‘I was playing the piano,’ she said after a long, tense moment. She tried to laugh, and didn’t quite succeed. She didn’t think she’d ever seen Luc look so angry. She stepped back from the piano, her fingers vibrating with memory, her heart singing. It had felt good to play, and the realization was one of wonderful relief.

Luc strode into the room, unamused, radiating a quiet, deadly fury. ‘How did you get in here?’

‘You left the key by the back door. How did you find me?’

‘Do you think a place like this isn’t armed?’

Abby stared at him blankly.
‘Armed?’

‘Security!’ Luc bit out. ‘As soon as you opened the door, a security alarm went off. It goes directly to the security firm, and they rang me to check I hadn’t set it off accidentally.’

Abby’s eyes widened. ‘I didn’t hear anything.’

‘You’re not meant to. It’s silent. The police would have been here in five minutes if I hadn’t called them off.’

He looked so angry, Abby thought, yet frightened too. She wondered why. ‘Why did you call them off? How did you know it was me?’

‘You were asking questions about the chateau last night, and I know you well enough to realize you wouldn’t leave it at that.’ He smiled tightly. ‘And I was right, wasn’t I?’

‘I was curious,’ Abby said quietly. ‘It could be so beautiful. Why is it all shut up?’

‘I told you last night,’ he said after a long moment. He glanced around the room, suddenly looking hunted, haunted. Abby suppressed the urge to walk over and wrap her arms around him. Despite his angry energy, he looked like a man in need of comfort. ‘I don’t want to live here.’

‘Did you ever live here?’

He continued to survey the room; the sunlight slanted through the shutters, creating dusty bars of light on the parquet floor. ‘I grew up here.’

Abby glanced back at the piano. There were ghosts in this room, she thought, ghosts and memories. Her own memories haunted her, memories of a life dedicated to professional playing when she didn’t even know if that was what she’d ever wanted, yet she couldn’t imagine a life without music. She touched the keys again and Luc winced.

‘It’s very out of tune,’ he said flatly.

‘Yes, I don’t think I’ve ever played such a badly tuned piano before.’

‘You must have played on some of the greatest pianos ever made.’

‘Yes.’ Impulsively she played the first few bars of the
Apassionata
once more. Even out of tune, the sound was both lovely and haunting. The music seemed to wrap around
them, seductive and heavy with memories. Luc stilled. Abby stepped away from the piano, suddenly shaken.

‘Do you miss it?’ he asked quietly.

‘I miss the music.’ She took a breath, deciding to be honest. ‘The joy.’ She turned to him. ‘Do you?’

‘Miss what?’

‘This. Her.’ Abby gestured to the chateau generally, yet the arc of her arm encompassed so much more. ‘We’ve both lived past lives, Luc. Do you miss it? Is that why you shut everything up, why you never talk about it?’ Her voice took on a raw, pleading edge. ‘Because you miss it so much?’

He didn’t answer. The silence seemed to stretch endlessly between them, filled with unspoken thoughts, regrets, memories. Abby turned back to the piano and picked out a few dissonant notes. They fell into the dust and stillness, and died away completely before Luc spoke.

‘No, I don’t miss it.’ He paused, his gaze shadowed, distant. ‘I suppose that’s what I regret.’

It took Abby a moment to understand.
‘Not
missing it?’

‘If you’re thinking I can’t give you what you need because I’m mourning my wife, Abby, then you couldn’t be more wrong,’ Luc stated with an almost clinical detachment, yet when he finished he drew in a shuddering breath; Abby could feel the torrent of regret and sorrow coursing through him.

‘Then why?’ she asked quietly, her fingers still stroking the smooth ivory of the piano keys. ‘Why are you the way you are, Luc? What happened to make you regret so much?’

‘I thought—’ Luc broke off, shaking his head. Abby waited. After a moment he walked to the French windows, shuttered against the sunlight, and in one deft movement unlocked the window and thrust open the shutter. Late-afternoon sunlight streamed in, making Abby blink. The view from the window was magnificent; the terrace led to landscaped albeit overgrown gardens that descended in a rolling meadow straight to
the Rhône. On the other side of the river she could see the twisted trunks of an olive grove, and further away still a vineyard.

‘I love this place,’ Luc said in a low voice, and somehow it seemed as if this was part of the explanation, the story. ‘I’ve always loved it. I suppose it’s in my blood.’

‘It’s been in your family for generations?’ Abby surmised, and Luc nodded.

‘Four hundred years.’ He lapsed into silence, still gazing out at his gardens, his property, his inheritance, his legacy. His very life. After a moment Abby left the piano, taking a step towards him. She stopped when Luc spoke again.

‘My father died when I was eleven. It was a heart attack, very sudden.’ He stopped abruptly, his face shuttered, and Abby’s heart ached for such a loss.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I miss him.’ He spoke quietly, giving a little shake of his head. ‘He was a good man.’ He paused, and when he resumed his voice was stiff again, as if reciting mere, stale facts. ‘As it happened, he hadn’t had the opportunity to put his affairs in order. My mother did the best she could, but with a corrupt estate-manager, and the myriad responsibilities of owning such a vast estate, things fell into disrepair.’ He gave a little shrug. ‘I’m telling you this so you can understand why,
who
, I am. That is what you wanted, yes?’

‘Yes,’ Abby whispered.

‘I watched Chateau Mirabeau grow more decrepit, our holdings and investments shrink and fail; if my father had been alive, he would have despaired. But then, if he’d been alive, it would not have happened.’ He sighed, suddenly weary.

‘As it was, I was only a boy and powerless to do anything. My mother and sisters did not concern themselves too much, as long as they had what they needed, which they did. We
were never destitute.’ He sighed again and rubbed a hand over his face. ‘But it burned within me. I couldn’t wait to gain back all we had lost. It was all I could think of, all I ever cared about.’ Another pause, and then he amended, ‘All I let myself care about, I suppose.’

A telling remark, Abby thought. Was it still all he let himself care about? Was his unwillingness to care for her a
choice?

‘When I was nineteen,’ Luc continued, ‘I took control of the estate, the vineyards, all of Toussaint Holdings. Of course, by that time, there wasn’t as much left as one might have wished. But I spent the next ten years devoted to returning my family’s inheritance back to its former glory. It became an
obsession.
’ He spoke the word as though it were a confession, with contempt. Abby simply waited, saying nothing. ‘I was successful, after a time, but it was never enough. I always wanted—’ He paused. ‘It always seemed like there was more to do, more to make secure. More to achieve.’

He turned to Abby, a grim smile twisting his features. ‘Suzanne fit into all these plans. She was from a neighbouring family, eligible, suitable. I’d known her since infancy. I thought she’d make the perfect bride.’

A checklist, Abby thought, neatly ticked. ‘And?’ she asked when it didn’t seem like he was going to continue.

‘And she did, on paper. But I didn’t know…’ He shook his head. ‘I didn’t realize the cost to her,’ he finally said. He gave a laugh, harsh and unforgiving. ‘I thought we were happy, or at least content. Or maybe I didn’t, but I never even let myself think too much about it. About her.’

‘Weren’t you happy?’ Abby whispered.

Luc shook his head. ‘Suzanne had a miscarriage early in our marriage. She was only a few weeks’ pregnant, but it nearly destroyed her. I didn’t even appreciate how much, she hid it so well. Or perhaps I just didn’t bother to look.’ He turned away. ‘I was saddened too, of course,’ he continued
after a moment. ‘But I assumed there would be other children.’ For a moment he glanced at Abby, and her hand stole inadvertently to her bump:
the other child.
His. Hers.

Luc gave a shrug, spreading his hands. ‘What can I say that will excuse my behaviour? I buried myself in work and left her here, to act as chatelaine. She hated the role. She was lonely, overwhelmed…’ He trailed off. ‘I didn’t even know it, but she’d been prescribed antidepressants. No one told me.’ He shook his head. ‘I was blind to it all, wilfully blind, too wrapped up in the kingdom I was trying to build—and for what?’

He turned back to the view, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his body radiating tension and a sorrowful anger.

‘It sounds as if she was trying to hide her illness,’ Abby said quietly. ‘Surely it wasn’t your fault?’

‘How can you say it wasn’t my fault?’ Luc demanded. ‘Suzanne was my wife—she was only twenty years old when we married. She was my responsibility, and I should have been able to see! I didn’t even realize she knew—’

‘Knew what?’

He shook his head impatiently, spitting out the words. ‘That I didn’t love her. I was fond of her, of course, and I thought she’d make a suitable wife. But she needed to be loved, and I couldn’t provide that for her.’ His voice was little more than an aching whisper. ‘Sometimes I wonder if that was why…’ He broke off, pressing his lips together in a hard line.

Abby waited, knowing the words would come when Luc was able to say them. ‘Why she had the car accident,’ Luc said. She had to strain to hear his words. ‘I don’t know where she was going; she never drove anywhere. The road was perfectly straight, yet she just veered off into the river.’ He stopped again, almost gasping before he tightened his lips once more; his whole face closed in on itself, wiped clean of the agony Abby knew he must still feel inside.

‘You think she did it on purpose,’ she said quietly, and Luc gave a terse nod.

‘It was judged to be an accident—but who knows? Who really knows?’

The not knowing would be the worst, Abby thought with a rush of sorrow. The endless wondering. Yet, looking at Luc now, his shoulders bowed with suffering and guilt, she knew he had taken too much onto himself. He’d taken all of it, assumed complete responsibility for Suzanne’s life—and death—just as he’d been doing with hers. No wonder he felt he had nothing more to give, Abby thought sadly. Loving someone was too hard when you made yourself utterly responsible for her happiness.

‘You can’t blame yourself for someone else’s life, Luc,’ Abby said gently. ‘Or for their sorrow or happiness. Even if you were blind to what Suzanne was feeling, or too obsessed with work. You can take responsibility for your own actions, but not for someone else’s.’ Luc shook his head, an instinctive movement, and Abby continued. ‘You know, that’s something I’ve come to realize myself. I was living my life for my father, because playing piano professionally was his dream, not mine. I made it mine to please him, please everyone, and lost myself in the process. I lost the joy of music I’d always had.’ Even now the confession caused an ache of longing within her, and she glanced at the piano, now cast in shadow.

‘But you play so beautifully.’

‘And I love playing,’ Abby agreed with a sad smile. ‘Just perhaps not in a concert hall. Not to the exclusion of everything else. And I can’t make my father happy by playing piano; I can’t give him his dream. I think he’s finally acknowledged that too; we’re finally living our own lives.’ She tried to smile, but there was too much pain and sorrow for her to do more than blink back the tears she longed to shed for both of them.

He took a step towards her. ‘Why don’t you hate me?’ he asked in a low voice.

‘Hate you?’ Abby repeated softly. ‘Why would I hate you?
How
could I hate you?’

‘After everything I’ve just said, after everything I’ve done.’ He spread his hands wide. ‘I walked away from you, Abby, because I was afraid. And selfish. There was nothing more I wanted to do than stay with you that night, and wake up with you in the morning. Every morning.’ He was walking straight towards her, so close that Abby found herself leaning back against the gilded edge of the piano, suddenly breathless.

‘Why?’ she whispered. ‘Why did you leave, then?’

‘That day…’ He paused, his features twisting in painful memory. ‘That afternoon I was sorting through some papers here. I found some letters of Suzanne’s—letters she’d written to herself, a journal of sorts that told of her unhappiness, her realization that I could never love her as she needed to be loved. That’s what she wrote: “I realize now Luc can never love me as I want to be loved”.’ He said each word as if it were a jagged shard hurting his throat, his memory. He shook his head, closing his eyes briefly. ‘And more, so much more, about how unhappy she was. She hated her life and she wrote about how she wanted to escape it—escape
it for ever—just
two weeks before she died.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Abby whispered, knowing the words were inadequate.

‘I left the chateau and drove straight to Paris. I was numb, shocked—I’d had no idea she felt that way. No idea it was my fault. I thought it was just the miscarriage, you see. I’d
absolved
myself.’

Abby felt tears sting her eyes, gather behind her lids. She blinked them away. ‘But it
wasn’t
your fault, Luc—’

He spoke over her, refusing to listen, to hear. ‘I had the chateau closed up that day. I didn’t want to live here, I
couldn’t, not when I knew what a misery it had been for another person, what my ambition had cost. I haven’t been back since…until today.’ He stopped in front of her, raising one hand as if to touch her, caress her, but he didn’t. He let his hand fall back to his side. ‘I went to your concert that night because I needed to get out of my own head. My own thoughts. And then when I saw you…’ He shook his head. ‘I felt hope. More than I’d ever thought to. I felt myself coming alive just looking at you, speaking with you. And when we were together…’